The Robinson Family Tree
by freekie
Summary: Fluffy one shots about past events in the lives of the Robinson family members. R&R! Needs a better title.
1. Cornelius

"_Did you know frogs have more musical ability than people? But … nobody believes me." The raven haired little girl clutched Frankie, her star frog. "They all think I'm crazy!" she whispered confidentially. A moment later, her earnest expression changed into a suspicious glance. "You think I'm crazy too!" she accused, a pout etched prettily on her face. She threateningly raised her hands in a karate chop position._

"_No, no, I think you're … right," Lewis answered reassuringly, smiling inwardly as he remembered Franny's words from the future. He gazed fondly down at his wife-to-be, who stared rapturously up at him as well. Her hands were clasped happily, while Frankie looked on bemusedly._

♫♫♫♫

Cornelius Robinson smiled reminiscently as he stared at the monitor of his first real invention – the Memory Scanner. He slipped off the comfortable headphones and powered down the machine, still affectionately thinking of his first encounter with Franny, the love of his life.

"Yo! Dad!" Wilbur, a teenage boy with jet black hair, precisely the same hue as his mother's, poked his head in the door. Cornelius jumped a mile, almost breaking the Scanner for the second time in its existence. He turned, irritated, to face his son. "Mom says dinner's ready," Wilbur continued, his expression slightly guilty at his father's annoyance.

"Yeah, I'll be right there," Cornelius replied. His impatience with Wilbur could never last long, not with his son, who reminded him so strongly of Franny. He stood and placed the old, graying blanket over his prized invention, the one that started it all. Cornelius' thoughts drifted back to his times with Franny, years before Wilbur had been born …

♫♫♫♫

"Lewis! Time for lunch!" a chipper voice, sounding distinctly caffeine charged, floated into Lewis' spacious inventing room. The afternoon sun was almost literally dripping through the windows of the dome, casting light on the numerous gleaming contraptions. About thirty, in fact – all invented by Lewis Robinson, a boy of fourteen. He barely heard his foster mother's calls to come eat. A pencil was tucked behind his ear, half hidden by a haystack of spiky blonde hair that would never lie flat, and another was in his hand as he drew madly on the next empty page of his notebook. A shelf nearby stacked all the notebooks he had filled since he had moved in with Bud and Lucille, almost two hundred in total.

A few moments later, Lewis dropped the pencil triumphantly and proudly tacked his newly finished plan for the first robot he would ever invent to the large blackboard. He knew he could do it; in fact, he had already done it in the future. But Carl would have to wait.

"Coming, Lucille," he yelled back. He cast one last look at his inventions, then ran down the stairs.

As usual, Lucille Robinson had twenty or more caffeine patches slapped onto her arm. She was busily stirring a large pot of spaghetti, a food she knew Lewis loved. Bud came walking in, the face drawn on the back of his head beaming its perpetual smile.

"Hey there, Lewis!" Bud greeted his adopted son with a beaming face. "How's the inventing going?"

"Great," Lewis answered through a large forkful of spaghetti. "I'm going to invent a robot." Bud and Lucille shared a furtive look of pride as Lewis described his plans for Carl. Long before he had finished recounting how he planned to build the robot however, he was interrupted by a loud knock at the door. "I'll get it," he volunteered. He jumped up from his seat at the table and made a beeline for the door. Wrenching it open, he grinned in delight at the eleven year old girl standing on his doorstep.

"Hey, Lewis!" the girl bounced in, her shoulder length black hair flying behind her.

"Hi, Franny," Lewis answered, still grinning. He felt a familiar thrill run from his head down to his feet. A frog, whom Lewis knew to be Frankie, was perched comfortably on Franny's head, and Lewis could see a few more poking out of Franny's pockets. Lewis' classmates thought that a "big kid" like Lewis hanging out with some little girl was stupid. After all, they weren't related, their parents weren't friends, or had any other relationship in any way – but they didn't know the half of it.

"Frankie's making real progress," she informed Lewis happily. She plucked him off of her jet black hair and placed him on the table. Frankie immediately began to belt out "Twinkle, Twinkle" at the top of his lungs, with sort of a jazz twist. Lewis watched, fascinated.

"That's great, Franny," he congratulated her. Franny smiled proudly and embraced Lewis tightly.

♫♫♫♫

"I can't believe you!" Franny cried. Hot, furious tears gathered at the corners of her wide brown eyes, threatening to spill over at any moment. Even Frankie was staring reproachfully at Lewis – or Cornelius, as he was now known as. Franny was now thirteen years old, and was growing up into an extremely pretty teenager. Cornelius knew that many of the boys in his class who had scorned her just a couple of years ago had nothing negative to say anymore. Sixteen year old Lewis stared down at the ground, ashamed. Even though he was three years older, Franny still intimidated him – she _was_always right, after all.

"It's like I don't know you anymore, Cornelius." Her soft, tearful tone frightened Cornelius more than her yelling. "You won't let me even talk to anyone anymore!"

"I just –" he began lamely. Franny cut him off by slamming her hand on the desk and stalking out of Cornelius' lab. The sun was still shining, as if mocking the broken hearted boy. He glared up at it, kicking a piece of scrap metal that lay on the floor. He couldn't believe that he and Franny were fighting over something so trivial such as … well. It wasn't as petty as Cornelius would like to believe. He knew he had screwed up, that he deserved every angry emotion Franny felt towards him. It hadn't seemed like such a big deal at the time. He had, in a fit of jealousy, insulted a boy he had seen Franny with one day, who turned out to be a cousin Franny was extremely close to. She hadn't told Cornelius that her cousin, Robert, was visiting, because she had wanted to surprise him.

Cornelius could have slapped himself for not recognizing the striking family resemblance between them.

Days went by. Cornelius was becoming increasingly miserable, and it showed. Franny, the caring person that she was, felt his pain as well. Her rage was rapidly disappearing – she knew she had made an over-dramatic scene in Cornelius' lab, but she couldn't bring herself to apologize. She spent most of her time with Robert, who tried fruitlessly to cheer her up, but it only made her more upset; Robert was still feeling ill-disposed towards Cornelius for offending him, and the dirty looks he was shooting at the Robinson mansion made no improvement in Franny's mood.

Robert departed a few days later, leaving Franny alone to mope. The day after he left, however, the doorbell rang at the Framagucci house. Franny knew immediately who it was. She ran, tripping, down the stairs, and opened the door to find Cornelius.

"Please, Franny," he implored. He opened his mouth to continue, but Franny once again cut him off and hugged him. She knew, without his actually saying, what he meant, and Franny Framagucci was an extremely forgiving person.

That, among other things, was precisely what Cornelius loved so much about her.

♫♫♫♫

**Author's Note: Sorry if it seems rushed ... it's my first fic, don't hurt me. :(**

**Review, please!**


	2. Franny

**Author's Note: Second chapter! (:**

**Thanks to doodlegirll for reviewing! 3**

♫♫♫♫

_Franny gasped as a meatball zoomed past, grazing her cheek. She tasted the sauce and an evil smile crept onto her face. "Surely that," she said menacingly, turning around, "is not the best you can do!" Her gaze turned to her brother, Gaston. She jumped on the table as Gaston fired meatballs at her through his beloved meatball cannon._

"_Impressive, little sister," he grinned. "Your skills are strong, but not strong enough!"_

"_Your words do not threaten me, brother!"_

"_Then enough words. Now, the real battle … begins!"_

_A fierce mêlée of meatballs commenced between Gaston and Franny. Meatballs flew everywhere, though Franny managed to nimbly dodge each one._

"_Your meatballs are useless against me," Franny taunted, striking a pose._

"_Then perhaps it's time for … spicy Italian sausage!"_

_Franny gave a sharp, horrified intake of breath. "No!" She thrust out a hand and whacked the sausage fiercely; it ricocheted off her hand and hit Gaston in the face. He toppled over, waving a white flag, while Franny gloated over her triumph._

♫♫♫♫

It had always been like that; Gaston and Art teamed up against Franny, boys against girl. It had been a source of great irritation to Franny as a girl, especially when she was with Cornelius, but the three had grown out of it. Franny had managed to overcome them many times, anyway, especially as she had a science geek and inventor on her side. Art, being the oldest, found the whole business tiresome long before Franny and Gaston had stopped having fun with it, so Franny and Gaston had continued to clash with each other alone. Gaston snuck into Franny's room and stole her diary, and Franny continued to beat him in their nightly food fights. They swore they would never be closer than they had to be as brother and sister.

But Gaston turned out to be one of the most important people in Franny's life.

♫♫♫♫

"I'll bet I can beat you in a race," an eight year old Franny challenged her brother, gliding to a stop on her shining white ice skates. Her cheeks were flushed pink with cold. Art watched them from the side, sighing in boredom – he was, clearly, only there because his mother had made him go.

Gaston scoffed at her confidence, his head held high. "Right, Sis," he answered condescendingly (though he was only two years older), circling the girl on tough black hockey skates. "How much do you wanna bet?"

"All chores for a month," Franny replied immediately. "From this end to the other." Gaston grinned wickedly.

"You're on," he accepted the challenge. They carefully lined up at one end of the pond, making sure that neither was a single inch ahead of the other.

"Ready … set …"

"GO!" Franny and Gaston both hollered the word in unison. They both began skating madly across the frozen surface. Gaston was pulling ahead, his jet coloured skates a black blur on the ice. All of a sudden, he screeched to a stop.

A splash, then a high pitched scream.

"Gaston!" the boy turned back in time to see Franny disappear under the ice, her bright green scarf waving in the biting wind. "Gaston!" she called again, her terror showing in her voice.

Gaston searched desperately around for a long stick or pole. Art continued to watch, frozen in horror. His gaze landed on a bough that had fallen from a nearby pine tree; he snatched it up and dashed to his sister.

"Grab this, Franny!" he yelled. Her small gloved hands clutched frantically at the limb. Pine needles showered down from it onto the ice. There was another splash as Franny lost her grip and fell under again.

"Hold on!" Gaston cried. Franny managed to get a hold of the branch; Gaston heaved until she was back on the ice, the both of them panting and shivering. Gaston tore off his jacket and draped it around Franny's shoulders. He hurriedly pulled off his skates and put his boots back on. Art, regaining the ability to move, gathered Franny up and carried her to their home, just two blocks away.

Back home, Franny sat in front of a blazing fire with several blankets and a large stuffed frog. Gaston sat beside her, drinking the huge mug of hot chocolate that his sister had refused.

"Are you … okay?" he asked awkwardly.

"Fine," Franny answered. She smiled at Gaston: "Thanks for pulling me out of the pond."

"Well, what was I supposed to do? Let you drown?" he teased. "Maybe I should have done that, instead."

"But then you'd have nobody to do your chores for the next month," Franny reminded him seriously, "like we agreed. And you'd have to do mine as well, since I'd be dead of hippo-thermia or whatever it's called."

Gaston laughed. "Well … maybe just this once, we'll call it off."

♫♫♫♫

**Author's Note: Review please!  
**


	3. Bud and Lucille

**Author's Note: Whoops … I forgot the disclaimer the last couple of times … don't sue me! –cries–**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Meet the Robinsons … Disney does. How sad.**

**Thanks to doodlegirll and Ember 411 for reviewing, and to doodlegirll, SunSation Gal 07 and Chaos the little devil for putting this story on their favourites!**

♫♫♫♫

_Lewis waved goodbye to the smiling, cheerful Robinson family. _His_ future family._

"_Farewell, future brother-in-law," Art's voice rose above the loud farewells of the rest of them._

"_See you later, Lewis!" Bud cheered._

"_Oh, don't forget the mashed potatoes!" Lucille waved merrily at him._

_Lewis grinned, attributing the randomness to the fact that Lucille was a Robinson, just like he would be some day._

♫♫♫♫

Of course, even Lewis never would have imagined there was a story behind that. It wouldn't happen for another year or so, anyway.

♫♫♫♫

"Lucille!" A black haired woman wiped her hands on her apron as a young boy dashed into the kitchen.

"Hi, Lewis," she greeted the young boy happily.

"Franny's family is having a picnic in about an hour, and I'm invited! Can I go?"

"Well, sure," Bud answered the question as he entered the front hallway. He and Lucille smiled fondly at Lewis. They thoroughly approved of the Framagucci family, and enjoyed that Lewis had someone to spend time with.

"I'll make something for you to bring along," Lucille promised, going into the kitchen. "How about mashed potatoes?" Lewis nodded in agreement as Buster, their dog, scampered into the hallway and leapt at Lewis, panting excitedly.

"Down boy, down!" the boy demanded, laughing. Buster obediently backed away and sat, thumping his tail on the floor.

Lucille bustled around the kitchen, methodically peeling potatoes and dropping them in a pot of water. Bud sauntered in backwards, fixing his polka-dotted bowtie.

"Boo!" Bud quickly gave Lucille a small push from behind, causing her to drop the bowl of half-mashed potatoes. She eyed the splatters of creamy-white goo on her kitchen floor and turned to Bud. Bud shrank back involuntarily, a look of alarm in his eyes. Lucille slowly bent down and picked up a handful of potato.

"Uh oh," Bud muttered. The white glop whacked him in the face. "Tastes good," he said hopefully, trying valiantly to redeem himself. All it earned him was another faceful of mashed spuds. He shook them off, and chucked another scoop of potatoes back at Lucille – and the fight was on.

Half an hour later, the kitchen was covered with globs of potato. Lewis walked in just then, skidding to a halt at the mess. Bud and Lucille were standing sheepishly in the middle of the room. A moment later, none of them were quite sure how it happened, they were all laughing hysterically.

"Oh, that was fun," Bud wiped tears of laughter from his eyes.

"I haven't had so much fun in years!" Lucille added.

"What will I bring to Franny's picnic now?" Lewis asked, still giggling a bit.

"I made cookies earlier," Lucille suggested brightly. At that, they all burst into random fits of laughter again. Lewis realized that they had just created history; the tradition of the Robinson food fight.

♫♫♫♫

**Author's Note: I apologize for the shortness. ): The chapters are getting progressively shorter ... but I promise I'll try and make the next one longer! **

**Review please!**


	4. Wilbur

**Author's Note: Sorry it took so long to update ... but I'm back! ;D**

♫♫♫♫**  
**

"_Lewis, you have to fix the time machine!"_

_**"**__No, I-I can't!"_

Overwhelming fear and dread filled Wilbur. The 99.999999 percent chance of his nonexistence was catching up to him.

_**"**__What about your dad? You could call him!" Lewis suggested desperately._

_**"**__You are my dad!" Wilbur reminded him, just as desperately._

_**"**__But that's in the future!"_

_**"**__There won't _be_ a future unless you fix the time machine!"_

Dark clouds were swirling across the sky, forming a huge whirlpool above Robinson Mansion.

"Look, I messed up." Wilbur pleaded. "I left the garage unlocked, and I tried like crazy to fix things! But now it's up to you!"  
Lewis hesitated, hovering between decisions.

_**"**__You can do it, Dad."  
Wilbur looked down. His legs evaporated into plumes of smoke and light._

_**"**__Lewis?" he said fearfully. "Lewis!" His body was sucked away into the clouds, as if by an enormous vacuum, towards his nonexistence._

_**"**__Wilbur? Wilbur!" Lewis cried. But Wilbur had gone.  
_

♫♫♫♫

Complete and utter darkness was pressing in around him. And it was cold, so cold.

Wilbur opened his eyes. Or … were they eyes? Wilbur wasn't quite sure; he didn't know if a being that didn't exist could have facial features. There was nothing to see, anyway, just pitch black. He shivered involuntarily. He had always been secretly afraid of the dark.

So this is nonexistence, Wilbur thought glumly. It sucks.

The events of the past day flashed through his thoughts. The food fight, the dinosaur fight, the emotional turmoil, futile attempts to fix the time machine (only to have it collapse in smoke again), and of course, meeting Lewis.

Lewis, Wilbur's child father.

Wilbur chuckled in spite of the situation, thinking about what it must be like to discover thirty years of your future, all in one day. To find out that your whole life was going to change, even your name, perhaps sooner than you might think.

Lewis, Dad, Dad, Lewis.

Wilbur felt his hopes rise at the name. Everything would be alright in the end, of course. It always was. Wilbur Robinson never failed, after all.

He just wished it would be alright sooner.

Wilbur suddenly found himself praying that Lewis would succeed, although he had never been very religious. Hurry up, Dad, he complained silently. This hole of nonexistence is so boring! He suddenly wondered what he looked like. Pictures formed in his head of a floating bubble of smoke with a black cowlick, drifting through the darkness. It made him smile.

Out of the blue, Wilbur felt a sharp tug and he was suddenly soaring through the nothingness at breakneck speed, until he felt his feet slam down on something solid.

Hold on – his _feet?_

Wilbur's eyes shot downwards to the familiar black Converse shoes, dark jeans, and Captain time Travel shirt that were materializing on the front lawn of Robinson Mansion. He felt his arms disbelievingly, and looked up to see a smiling blonde-haired boy with hair that reached straight for the sky.

"You did it, Lewis, you did it!" Wilbur cheered triumphantly. I knew you could, he added wordlessly. A second figure caught his eye, one with a hideous hairdo and repulsive B.O. The figure tittered sheepishly at Wilbur's shocked expression and waved nervously.

"Hyah!" Wilbur cried furiously, striking a karate pose and knocking the former Bowler Hat Guy to the ground.

"Let him go!" Lewis struggled to take Wilbur's hands away from Mike Yagoobian.

"What are you doing!?" argued Wilbur. "He's the bad guy!" Lewis finally managed to pull his future son's flying fists away and Goob collapsed, gasping, on the ground.

"No, he's not." Lewis told Wilbur, pulling him up. "He's my roommate."

"He's – _what?"_

Lewis pulled Wilbur aside and hissed into his ear: "Look, he's my old roommate, and I really think you guys should adopt him."

After a few moments of heated argument, Wilbur huffed angrily and turned around.

"Okay, Mr. Yagoobian, do you want to be a Robins - where'd he go?"

"Goob? Goob!" Lewis called to the emptiness. There was no reply. "Goob," he repeated sadly.

Wilbur watched as Lewis picked up a garish pink binder with a unicorn on the front and flip through it. He felt slightly guilty for beating up Mr. Yagoobian, but what was he supposed to have done? He shook it off and walked back to the house, side by side with his child father.

♫♫♫♫

**Author's Note: Something slightly different. Sorry it's so short; I had absolutely no ideas for Wilbur's chapter! Hope you enjoyed it, please review!**


	5. Laszlo and Tallulah

**Author's Note: Sorry it took a while. I tried to make this chapter long to make up for the short ones.**

**Argh, I forgot the disclaimer again. Whoops.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Meet the Robinsons, etc, etc.**

♫♫♫♫

"_Laszlo! You stop painting my hat or I'm telling Ma!"_

"_Aww, lighten up, Sis!" Laszlo Robinson buzzed around the room, squirting splashes of paint onto blank canvases hanging on the wall as a pretty girl in a navy blue dress with a matching hat in the shape of a skyscraper hollered at him. The girl's clothes were perfect and immaculate, except for the single streak of bright orange paint scarring the hat._

"_Lasz, I mean it!" Tallulah Robinson yelled angrily at her younger brother, silently mourning her ruined headgear._

"_Children, please," implored a quiet voice from a nearby doorway. "Your mother is trying to take a nap!"_

"_What is all the yelling out here!?" someone screeched. A puppet emerged from the door, a wooden hand puppet with flaming red hair and a green dress. Fritz and Petunia glared angrily at their arguing children._

"_She started it!" Laszlo pointed accusingly at Tallulah._

"_He started it!" Tallulah's angry protest came in unison._

"_I don't want to hear anymore!" Petunia shrieked._

"_Now, sweetie …"_

_There was a loud slap. "Don't you 'sweetie' me!"_

_They could have gone on forever._

♫♫♫♫

Sibling rivalry had always been an issue for Laszlo and Tallulah. In fact, it was still an issue. They couldn't go ten minutes without finding some miniscule detail to fight over. It wasn't as bad as it was when they were younger. Slowly, painfully slowly, but surely, they were growing out of it. At that rate, they would be completely rid of it in about thirty five years.

Still, there was progress. They were no longer the same havoc-wreakers as they used to be; back then, they fought to the breaking point of both their parents and themselves.

♫♫♫♫

It was before Petunia's cranky, "I want a sloppy joe!" days. Back then, she had been perfectly normal – or, as normal as a puppet mother (who was a Robinson, on top of it all) could be. But that changed after The Incident.

Laszlo had fondly dubbed The Incident as "Judgment Day." After that, Laszlo's nose was never the same, and neither was Tallulah's wardrobe. It all started with Fritz's fatal announcement:

"Children, your mother and I are going out for the day."

Tallulah had been fourteen at the time, and behind her parent's backs, incredibly immature. Laszlo was ten, shrewd, knew perfectly well about his sister's naivety, and was by no account willing to tell his parents anything that would make them hire – it made Laszlo shudder to even think about it – another _babysitter._

The last few had been awful enough; the last one had dropped them off at a neighbor's house after only two hours and gone home, screaming about insanity. The neighbor was left to stare, wide-eyed, at the angelic children sitting on his couch and innocently swinging their legs. Now that Tallulah was legally old enough to watch her younger brother, her parents weren't going to miss out on their first opportunity to get out of the house away from their bickering children, without having to pay a sitter.

Thirty minutes later, Fritz and Petunia were on their way out. Fritz waited good-naturedly as Petunia anxiously threw last-minute, obvious reminders at her children.

"And remember, Tallulah, don't touch the stove."

"I know, Mom."

"Don't play with matches, Laszlo!"

"Yes, Mom."

"Lock the door, don't leave the house, and –"

"_We know, Mom!" _Tallulah and Laszlo chorused together impatiently. Petunia sighed and the two of them left, the door shutting ominously behind them.

Laszlo whooped loudly, grinning at his sister. Tallulah just scoffed and went back to her room. Laszlo stared after her, watching as she slammed the door. It wasn't enough to block out the loud music that suddenly blasted out.

"_Hey, hey, you, you, I don't like your girlfriend …"_ Laszlo shuddered at the irritating (or at least he thought it was irritating) sound of Avril Lavigne's newest album.

I may as well be home alone, Laszlo thought. Perfect.

♫♫♫♫

Tallulah stalked into her room, closing the door with a resounding crash.

I am so sick of my stupid kid brother, she thought, turning her iPod speakers to max volume and pressing play. Avril Lavigne's voice belted out of the speakers, the slightly metallic tone ringing deaf in Tallulah's ears. She stood, gazing critically at herself through her full length mirror. She threw her closet open, along with her drawers. She pulled out armfuls of makeup and dumped them out onto her bed and desk.

She was about to prove that every girl likes to play dress-up.

♫♫♫♫

Meanwhile, Laszlo was having the time of his life in his own room. He had specially requested to have white walls in his room for exactly this purpose; getting out his paintbrushes and spray paint cans and decorating his own bedroom to his liking. Laszlo climbed onto his bed with a canister of orange spray paint in one hand, a paintbrush loaded with green in the other. He began jumping up and down, howling madly as he waved his arms around, splattering green and orange all over, including on himself.

"Yeahh!" he bellowed. Laszlo was normally rather a quiet, sensitive kid; but he was milking his freedom for all it was worth. He had the chance to go crazy, so why shouldn't he take it?

He tossed the paintbrush down onto the carpeted floor, leaving streaks of green behind. He picked up another brush, soaked it in purple paint, brought it behind his head, and swung it forward with all the strength of a baseball player at bat, all bases loaded. Paint flung itself onto everything: on the walls, on the bookshelves, the bedding, his closet, and into the open cans of paint that lay on the floor beside a squeaky easel.

Laszlo didn't need music to rock out. All he needed was paint. Not even paper – to an artist, Laszlo decided, _everything_ is a blank canvas.

♫♫♫♫

The music in Tallulah's room, playing at an earsplitting volume, made her oblivious to her younger brother's ideas of entertainment. Even if she had been able to hear him, though, she probably wouldn't have cared. She sat, preening herself in front of the mirror. Endless supplies of hair elastics, hair bands, bobby pins, hair gel, accessories, and makeup were spread in front of her as she admired her fancy hairdo and extremely overdone makeup. Huge earrings dangled from her ears, crested with (fake) gems. She wore a short dress of bright turquoise that was too small for her, with tight sleeves that ended somewhere on her forearm, cutting off circulation between her elbow and her wrist.

A loud knocking at the door interrupted her grooming. She hastily changed into her normal clothes, clattered down the stairs and peeked out the window. One of the neighbors, Tallulah couldn't remember the old man's name, was standing outside the door, looking murderous. Tallulah cringed and gingerly opened the door.

"May I help you?" she asked sweetly, before noticing what the neighbor was holding. "Wha-!"

"This," the neighbor bellowed, gripping Laszlo's shirt, "was on my lawn, painting my house!" He shook the boy roughly. Tallulah glanced at the house next to theirs; it was no longer the immaculate beige it used to be, but beige stained with purple, orange, green, red, blue, and every other imaginable colour. She turned her gaze back to the neighbor.

"Thank you, uh … sir." Tallulah mumbled.

"I'll expect you to pay for the house to get repainted!" The elderly man dropped Laszlo forcefully on his butt down on the veranda and hobbled away, leaning on his cane and wheezing angrily. Muttered words could be heard: mainly things like "insanity" and "darn kids." Laszlo got up and dashed into the house. Tallulah tried to grab at him, but Laszlo dodged her nimbly and escaped to his room.

"Don't expect me to tell Mom and Dad!" she hollered back at him. There was no reply, except an extremely loud raspberry. She huffed loudly and stomped up the stairs. "Laszlo!" she shrieked. Suddenly, something came up behind her and kicked her in the behind. She let out a small scream and turned just in time to see Laszlo run downstairs. "You little – argh!" Tallulah scrambled up off the floor and sprinted after him. There was no sign of him.

"Over here, stupid," Laszlo taunted. Somehow, he had managed to get up the stairs again and was now laughing wildly, staring down at his sister from the upper floor balcony. Tallulah watched lividly as her brother climbed on top of the banister and stood, balancing precariously. "Come and get me," he yelled. "Bet you ca–"

Tallulah let out a gasp as Laszlo's cocky expression quickly melted into horror as his foot slipped off the rail and he fell with a shout and a loud thump. He lay on the floor on his back, gasping for breath as the wind was knocked out of him. His arm was twisted at an odd angle, resting limply on the ground.

"Tallulah?" Laszlo mumbled weakly. His face had turned a pasty gray, a huge contrast to his normally rosy cheeks.

Oh, great, Tallulah groaned silently. Now what? She grabbed a pillow off of the couch and pushed it under Laszlo's head. "Just wait a second," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. "I'll be right back." Laszlo muttered an unintelligible reply and Tallulah dashed to the phone and dialed 911.

♫♫♫♫

Two and a half hours later, Tallulah was sitting beside a hospital bed, flipping through a magazine in an uninterested fashion. Laszlo lay in the bed, examining the cast that now encased his broken arm and looking extremely bored. She looked up mildly as the thin curtain that covered the entrance flew open and Fritz rushed in. Petunia bombarded questions at Laszlo about his arm.

"How did it happen? Does it hurt? Are you okay?"

Laszlo tried his best to answer them all, lying slightly about how his arm was broken.

"I … uh … fell down the stairs," he muttered. Tallulah scoffed, but managed to turn it into a cough when Fritz and Petunia looked at her.

"Uh, yeah, that's right," she said quickly. "The stairs. Yeah." She coughed slightly. "Oh, and you might be getting a bill from the neighbor." She explained what had happened.

"The doctor said I can go now," Laszlo added, before his incredulous (and angry) parents could say anything. "Just as soon as you got here." They checked out hurriedly and left. During the car ride home, Petunia and Fritz were both thinking the same thing:

"Those two are never staying home alone again."

♫♫♫♫

**Author's Note: Hope you enjoyed it! If you have any ideas for future chapters, or if I've forgotten someone in my dimwitted-ness, feel free to suggest things. The next chapters are Gaston, Art, Fritz/Petunia, Joe/Billie, Carl, Lefty, and Spike/Dimitri.**

**Review please!**


	6. Gaston

**Author's Note: My chapters are getting longer! Yay! (I made VERY small grammar changes.)**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Meet the Robinsons, but I do own the Mess Remover 3000. ;P **

♫♫♫♫

"_Okay, that should do it!" Lewis laid down the screwdriver and examined the PB and J invention._

"_It's so exciting … Let her rip, Lewis!" Billie exclaimed, looking excited._

"_Quickly," Art urged. "Uncle Joe can't hold on much longer!" A red faced Uncle Joe was rocking in his seat, sobbing and sucking his thumb._

"_Everybody ready?"_

"_Go, Carl!" Lewis handed the machine to Carl. Everybody cheered as he activated the invention; it whirred promisingly, then jammed again. "Oh no," Lewis breathed, sounding apprehensive. Peanut butter and jelly exploded out of the gun, landing on everyone. "Oh no," Lewis moaned again, burying his face in his hands. "I – I didn't know, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!" _

"_You failed!" cried Bud happily._

"_And it was awesome!" Gaston applauded Lewis._

"_Exceptional," Art added._

"_Outstanding!" cheered Laszlo._

"_Uh … I've seen better!" Petunia shrieked, always with a positive attitude._

"_From failing, you learn," Billie told Lewis, shrugging. "From success, not so much!"_

"_If I gave up every time I failed, I never would have made the meatball cannon!" Gaston stroked his cannon lovingly._

"_I never would have made my fireproof pants!" Bud said proudly, his hands on his hips. His pants were indeed flaming brightly. They seemed to be okay, until they burnt to ashes. "Still working out the kinks," Bud added sheepishly. Tallulah gawked in amazement as Bud stood in his underwear, a pile of ashes at his feet._

♫♫♫♫

Ah, yes. The meatball cannon. After exactly forty three prototypes, Gaston had finally succeeded. The weapon that had helped him beat Franny in countless food fights, his most prized possession, the one thing he kept most carefully guarded. (And by "most carefully guarded", he meant "stuffed farthest into the back of his sock drawer and carelessly hidden by mismatched socks.")

The first prototype had taken only a few days to make, especially since Gaston had all the materials and tools he needed at his fingertips. All he had to do was go into the garage and find Cornelius' spare junk. And not get caught by Cornelius. It was as simple as that.

While inventing the cannon, he had spent unusually long hours in his room working on it (using the garage would have been more sensible, but Gaston had never been one to think quickly). Franny had been slightly suspicious at the small explosions and noises emitting from Gaston's room, but when she thought about it, how unusual was it? It was, after all, Gaston.

Gaston had always been the "daredevil" of the family; being the middle of three children, he was always looking for ways to get attention from the Framagucci parents. Most of his pleas for attention ended up in some kind of injury. He jumped off the roof into huge piles of leaves (resulting in a broken leg and a sprained wrist), rode on skateboards down terribly steep hills, After rescuing Franny from an icy, watery death in the pond when she was eight, Gaston had spent one of the happiest weeks of his life basking in the glow of being "a hero." Once Franny returned to her old cheerful self again, however, the "hero" glow faded back to Gaston's usual mediocrity.

So, since it was Gaston, nobody really thought too much about it. At least, they didn't until prototype sixteen.

At prototype sixteen, an eleven year old Wilbur had been casually walking by Gaston's room (obviously not spying on him) when he noticed something purple, slimy, and apparently acidic (it was burning through the hall carpet) seeping underneath the crack of Gaston's bedroom door. With it came a loud crash and many muffled profanities. Wilbur stifled a snigger and knocked on the door.

"Hey, Uncle G," he called in his high, childish voice. "Are you okay in there?"

"Yeah! Yeah!" a frantic voice called back hurriedly. "I'm fine, Will, uh … go play with Carl or something!" Wilbur furrowed his brow, scowling. At eleven, Wilbur already considered himself above just "playing with Carl or something." Wilbur hopped carefully away, jumping over the spreading rivers of violet that were melting the carpet.

Gaston sighed, relieved, as he opened the door slightly and watched his nephew bounce away. He cowered inwardly at the thought of what his sister would say when she found out that he had burned away her carpet, but he pushed it into the back of his mind. He would cross that bridge when it came. After all, he had to keep moving forward, right?

He grabbed handfuls of toilet paper from the nearest bathroom and began attempting to mop away the purple liquid. It looked vaguely like grape juice. As soon as the toilet paper touched the stuff, though, the toilet paper began to melt away, smoking alarmingly.

"Great," he complained aloud. "How am I supposed to get rid of this!?" There was only one thing for it; he needed a Robinson invention. But how was he supposed to get one? He couldn't go to Cornelius – it would get back to Franny in a heartbeat. What he really needed was someone small, quick, willing to help (or be bribed), and would never get killed by Cornelius or Franny. There was only one person like that in this household, Gaston decided.

"Hey, uh … Wilbur?" he yelled. Wilbur's head immediately appeared outside the door. Gaston suspected he had never really left in the first place. He quickly stepped into the hall and shut the door before his nephew could figure out what he was doing.

"Yes, Uncle G?" Wilbur answered innocently. Gaston sighed, embarrassed to be asking an eleven year old kid for help.

"I need help," Gaston told him. The raven haired boy's angelic expression dropped immediately to be replaced by his trademark smirk.

"What do you need?" Wilbur asked slyly.

"Something to get rid of that." Gaston gestured to the rapidly spreading mess on the floor.

"Well," Wilbur said thoughtfully, "it just so happens that my father has been working on something to get rid of every imaginable mess." Gaston's hopes soared. "But," Wilbur continued, (Gaston's hopes plummeted down again) "it's still a prototype."

"Whatever," Gaston pleaded desperately. "I need to clean this up before Fra – your mother finds out."

Wilbur grinned. "I've been there before, my friend," he said knowledgably, a smooth talker even at age eleven. "And I'll get you something to fix the carpet too, as a bonus."

"Are … you wanting to know what's in it for you?" Gaston asked warily, before Wilbur could open his mouth.

"Nah," Wilbur replied charitably. "I'm feeling generous today; plus, I know what it's like when Mom's on the warpath. I'll be back in five." He sprinted away down the hall. Gaston grinned; his nephew truly was a Robinson.

♫♫♫♫

Precisely five minutes later, Wilbur was back with a colourful ray gun and a long, lethal looking metal bar with a dial. He handed them to an anxious Gaston.

"Easy in, easy out," he said proudly. "Dad wasn't even there."

"Yes!" Gaston cheered. He took the gun first and read the words on the side: "Mess Remover 3000?"

"Dad's never been that good with names," Wilbur shrugged. Gaston shook it off and aimed the gun at the carpet. Wilbur watched, waiting excitedly to see what would happen. A blue laser shot out of the end. As soon as the laser made contact with the purple liquid, it disintegrated and turned to ashes. Another quick zap and the ashes were gone.

"I love this invention," Gaston said fervently. He cleared away the last of the stuff, and then reached for the metal bar.

"Be careful with this," warned Wilbur. "This is a really recent prototype." Gaston nodded, not really listening, and examined the metal thing.

"How do you use it?"

"Just twist the dial to 'carpet'," Wilbur directed. "Then use that end and poke the bare spots." Gaston gently prodded the area where the carpet had burned away. When there was no result, he jabbed at the floor more forcefully. Still, nothing happened. Gaston stabbed the floor angrily – and dropped the Mess Remover 3000.

Time seemed to slow down dramatically as it fell to the floor. It hit the carpet with a dull thud – and set off. Wilbur yelped and ducked into a closet as the ray shot its' laser into the bathroom. It hit a mirror, and reflected out again. Gaston followed the laser's beam to the chandelier dangling from above; the laser was swiftly dissolving the chain that anchored it to the ceiling. He grabbed the ray from the floor and tugged the stuck trigger, stopping the beam, but it was too late: the chandelier was already tumbling to the ground. He leaped out of the way and watched, horrified, as it crashed through the floor, creating a gaping hole and landing – obviously – in Franny's music room. Gaston moaned and peeked into the opening; Franny, pale white and furious, was glaring up at him.

♫♫♫♫

"Enjoying your punishment, Uncle G?" Wilbur the Insensitive asked cheerfully. Gaston grunted, hiding his red face – Franny was forcing him to clean up after her frogs – she hadn't gotten around to toilet training them yet. Wilbur was grounded, but it didn't stop him sneaking into the travel tubes. Both of them were oblivious to the fact that Franny stood silently at the doorway. She smiled reluctantly at the sight of them, and left: maybe she would let them be. Just this once.

♫♫♫♫

**Author's Note: Please, please, please review … don't cheat and just read the story. :) I want to know what you think!**


	7. AUTHOR'S NOTE

**Author's Note!**

I am **so, so, so **sorry that I haven't updated this. I NEED IDEAS! If you have plot ideas for Art, Fritz/Petunia, Joe/Billie, Carl, Lefty, or Spike/Dimitri, PLEASE TELL ME so I can get going! xD

Otherwise, this story is going on hiatus for awhile.

Thank you!

-- Melzzie


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